J'avais rêvé d'un autre vie
by kylermalloy
Summary: Elijah's peaceful life of piano music in France is shattered by a song that affects him more deeply than he anticipates. (Inspired by Ne Me Quitte Pas, the song that shares its title with the episode 5x03) Fic title: I dreamed of another life from Les Miserables


**So I guess this fic counts as canon divergent, seeing as Elijah knows nothing of who he is or what he left behind. Antoinette more or less does not exist in this fic.**

**Anyway. Enjoy more of my never-ending Klelijah feels!**

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Elijah finds his peace in music.

A life such as his should be utterly _full_ of peace. He lives a quiet existence filled with simple pleasures and kind, accommodating companions. Sleepy Manosque attracts only the most humble, gentle visitors and patrons.

Yet most times he finds himself filled with unease.

Ghosts flicker on the edges of his vision, of his memories. Whatever his past life, whatever made him into the creature he is, haunts him relentlessly.

The back of his neck prickles with the fear of pursuit, and shadows in his bedroom lurk with ill intent. Even the soft candlelight of the restaurant, that haven of good food and casual friends, is filled with eyes that stare and wonder and demand.

He is a mystery, and everything that surrounds him is a vessel of unrest.

Music is what truly calms him.

It shouldn't. His fingers dance across the keys effortlessly, though he has no recollection of learning to play, of the hours of practice he must have toiled over to achieve the level of mastery pinging from those strings.

It should unsettle him, disturb him in the same way as when French and other languages pour from his lips—older tongues, ones whose origins he can only guess at.

(He's forever left grasping, imagining where they come from. Where he comes from. What wretched history he was torn from and shoved, alone and clean and naive, into a life of unknowing.)

But not the music. There's a serenity in it, a lack of moral rights and wrongs and ambiguities—a beauty in every note, even an unintentional one, finding its way under his hands.

It's something he creates, something he controls. He listens and he learns and digests music of all genres, allowing them to flow forth from his fingers. Some he has no memory of hearing or learning, like the syncopated jazz staccatos that surprise even him with their energy. Or the smoother, more soothing melodies that sound like lullabies from centuries past.

It's years before even a moment of unrest steps behind his piano.

A quiet night, early in the evening. Customers are slow, and Elijah knowingly locks eyes with Claude, the bartender, several times. He gradually transitions from his gentle, easy-listening music to grander, more sweeping melodies. Behind the bar, Claude smiles and nods along. His applause after every song echoes lonesome across the room.

Elijah begins a new piece then, one he has never tried before. After all this time he is still amazed at the way his fingers find a half-forgotten melody without effort, without any trial and error.

This song he cannot place, cannot name. Cannot begin to know where he heard it. The melody is simple, easily adapted and repeated, indicating it is meant to be sung. It's darkly dramatic, darting between minor refrains and major interludes without pause.

But any number of key changes cannot mask its inherent, desperate veneer of sadness. It bleeds through every note, every chord progression, filling Elijah with a buried sense of…longing.

An ache itches deep in his chest. Some emotion this version of him could not swallow strains—_scrabbles_ to claw up his throat and burst free.

He's struck with a weight, a burden of knowledge just beyond his reach. Something he should know. Something he should feel. Something he does not, and cannot.

The missing pieces press down on him, heavying his shoulders.

His fingers continue to play of their own accord. There's no break in the music, no stutter to betray the turmoil curling around his insides.

The usual peace of music has been poisoned by this terrible emptiness inside—this _void_.

It's as though this song has awakened a desolation in him, one whose magnitude is unbeknownst to his infant mind. How many years has he lived, how many have been forgotten, before this life?

The song crescendos under his hands. Swells into the refrain with renewed fervor. Loneliness spills over, like a yawning cry in a black landscape with no hope of ever hearing an answer.

Elijah's heart throbs hopelessly—not just for his solitude, but for his missing knowledge. For knowing only that he will _never_ know.

Whatever he feels, whoever he longs for…his hunger will never be satisfied.

Whispers worm their way into his mind, scratching at the walls he has so carefully constructed around this life.

Elijah shivers at the phantom sensation of a hand on his shoulder, of lips breathing words into his ear. (threats? lies? love? He cannot tell.)

The sense memory breaks his concentration, freezes his fingers for a brief moment. His soft trill is soured by a dissonant half step. Putting a single crack in the flawless melody that has shattered him so entirely.

He corrects his mistake, replaying the final chord more softly, one octave higher.

The two lone patrons applaud politely, hearing the final tone signal the song's end. Elijah nods his thanks, although he is unable to meet their gazes across the dim, flickering candlelight.

He hadn't noticed until now the tears streaming down his face.

_Why._

Elijah inhales sharply, breath catching in his throat. He raises one quivering hand to collect the moisture on his cheek.

His palm itches. As if something is missing from it. It's too empty.

He sits at the keys, too stunned to begin another song. The music flowing through his head has been replaced with the dull, deafening ring of silence.

What is the song? Where did it come from? And why would it affect him so deeply?

Is it an associated memory, erased yet still buried deep inside his bones? Or is it the words, the lyrics he does not know? Do they sing to him, trying to awaken some lost love?

There's nothing he knows that will help him solve the puzzle.

His mind is full of forests. Of a sensation of running. Of holding a smaller loved one in his arms. Pressing his lips to someone's forehead.

Of course, it's all empty. Silent. Faceless. Elijah's chasing ghosts.

He rises abruptly from the piano. His old fears of pursuit, of scrutiny and accusation, have crept into his hallowed seat behind the keys.

He needs a drink.

"You all right?" Claude asks as Elijah all but falls onto a stool at the bar.

"Yeah." Elijah pours himself a generous glass of Brenne.

"Lovely song. That last one—was it new?"

"For me, yes." (The whiskey's sting is unsatisfying. Somehow, it never tastes quite right to him.)

"It's lovely."

Elijah hesitates, allowing his glass to hover protectively near his lips. "Did you recognize it? I can't remember what it's called."

Claude's brow creases in thought. "Hmm. Where'd you hear it?"

Elijah shakes his head helplessly. Takes another sip from his glass.

He is the backside of a tapestry—beautifully, intricately woven. But the colors are wrong, inversed, backwards, making the picture impossible to see or understand.

Claude shrugs. "Don't know for sure. But it sounded familiar. I think it might be a love song."

Elijah suppresses a shudder. Again, faint whispers fan a chill across the back of his neck. Insistent. Demanding.

He doesn't know what they want.

He forces his tone to be noncommittal. "I must've heard it on the radio sometime." One final sip empties his glass. "Think I might turn in early tonight."

As he leaves, he can't seem to shake the gaze of the last remaining patron, sitting in shadow in the cafe's darkest corner.

…

He tries to put the incident out of his mind. (It should be easy, seeing how good he is at forgetting. But it isn't.)

For the next few nights, sleep taunts him mercilessly. He cannot shake the desolation, the mystery. The eyes of the shadowy figure from the restaurant bore into his back.

Almost a week later, when he arrives early before opening, Claude calls him over to the bar. "Elijah, I found it." He holds up his phone proudly, stopping Elijah dead in his tracks.

A familiar song is pouring from his speakers. The same chords he played that night. A mournful baritone croons in French of forgotten love and lost time.

The music app on Claude's phone displays the title of the mystery song. Elijah stands frozen, unable to tear his eyes from the words scrolling repeatedly across the screen. _Ne Me Quitte Pas. Ne Me Quitte Pas. Ne Me Quitte Pas._

"Elijah, you all right?" Claude asks. His voice is faint in Elijah's ears.

_Do not leave me._

_Do not leave me._

_Do not leave me._

The plea scratches deep at whoever Elijah used to be. There are claws sunk into his old heart, his old self, pulling, trying to drag him back.

"_You all right?"_

He replies with impeccable serenity. "Perfectly."

Pity there isn't enough of his old self left.

All he can do now is stand in the ruins and weep.

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Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think - comments feed my SOUL. I'm on tumblr too, hop over and say hi!


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